


In Flanders fields

by Evil_Keshi



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Canonical Character Death, Legends, M/M, Romance, Soldier Alec Lightwood, Soldier Magnus Bane, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 04:18:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16590710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evil_Keshi/pseuds/Evil_Keshi
Summary: They're scared, all of them, because most of them hold a rifle for the first time, but they're full of hopes too. They feel powerful, when they forget to be afraid: they're the heroes, the men sent to save the day, and they sing as they make their way through Flanders and to Hainaut.It's a long way to Tipperary, it's a long way to go.They just don't know how long exactly.





	In Flanders fields

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! As announced on Twitter, here I am publishing a story made for this special day. The action is mostly set in Belgium (Mons, which is my hometown) and I tried to make it as historically accurate as I could, while including the legend of the Angels of Mons, which says that angels protected British soldiers during WWI.

  


It's raining when they arrive in Belgium, after crossing the Channel. Mud and large puddles welcome the British Expeditionary Force but Magnus guesses it's alright, for it feels like they haven't left London, like they're still in their own land where they've learned to relish the tears of the sky, as much as they loathe them sometimes.

It helps, somewhat. Most of Magnus' brothers in arms are young, some younger than him, with girls home waiting for them, and instead of embracing them in a bed, their cold hands clench onto their pistol, their anxious eyes looking ahead, their throats working around lumps of nervousness. The rains are welcome. They feel like home.

Home is far behind though, far from desolation and the German threat... for now. Magnus doesn't think London will suffer much. They've been sent to stop the war, help Belgium and France to keep the Germans away from Paris. A few months should suffice, so Magnus counts down the days until he's allowed to take a boat back to London, where he'll go back to his studies, far from the shadow of the war.

They're scared, all of them, because most of them hold a rifle for the first time, but they're full of hopes too. They feel powerful, when they forget to be afraid: they're the heroes, the men sent to save the day, and they sing as they make their way through Flanders and to Hainaut.

_It's a long way to Tipperary, it's a long way to go _.__

____

They just don't know how long exactly.

  


  


21st of August, 1914. They sing still, just not the same song. John Parr is dead and they mourn, singing soft prayers. He's the first of their troops to die, shot by the Boche while he was scouting the territory, looking for the enemy. He was seventeen. Magnus is twenty-two and he wonders... How long does he have left? Who knows if he won't end up like John tomorrow or perhaps the day after that if he's lucky, or in two months? Six?

"It could have been any of us," he tells Ragnor that night, as they sit in the square at Mons, on the cobblestones, in front of the gothic City Hall. "We're not better than he was. Just luckier, so tomorrow..."

He doesn't finish his sentence but he knows that his friend understands him. John died, yeah, but he didn't give up before he was sure that the scout by his side had escaped so he could send word of the Germans' progress: they're coming to Mons. John died a hero, he saved the day, like they had all promised to do, but he doesn't sing no more. Magnus isn't sure that he'll sing for long either.

"Don't think like that," Ragnor chides him after a moment of quietness. "We're alive."

That they are, Magnus thinks, but he doesn't answer. It sounds fake. Is it really living, when you sleep with your rifle in your hands? When the population of Mons gladly houses and feeds the soldiers of his corps but hides part of their stocks because they fear the future, fear that the British's won't be able to win, fear the day the Germans come and stay? Is it living, when John's ghost feels heavy on their mind and invites them to follow him?

Magnus doesn't sleep that night, nor the next. He contemplates the sky, hears the rumour of the Germans' footsteps, feels the way the soldiers and the people hold their breath, waiting, and he can feel his heart beat faster, as if it was trying to prove how much it wants to live.

What is a heart in front of the cruelty of war?

  


  


The sun has not risen for long when they receive a message, announcing that the German canons are raining on their troops North of Mons. It's nine o'clock when battalions attack the bridges that lead to Mons - and then it's only gunfire, bombardments, sweat stinging the eyes, dirt marring the cheeks, and screams.

"We can do this," Ragnor whispers as they hold bloody hands for a few seconds, during a short moment of respite.

Magnus doesn't think it is his blood, nor Ragnor's, and he guesses they're truly luckier than poor John. He just doesn't know whether that's German blood or British or French or Belgian. It's red. Civilian maybe, military for sure. They bleed the same and really, doesn't that say enough about humans? They're the _same_.

"Fall back!" someone screams soon after, "Fall back, now!"

Magnus' heart jumps in his chest at the order and he shares a look with Ragnor before they obey, confused, not understanding anything at all - except _fall back_. What happened? Have they lost? Is Mons lost? Where are they going now?

It's only later that he hears the French's Fifth Army retreated, leaving the British's right aisle defenceless. Later, when Ragnor agonises in his arms after a bullet pierced his chest. He screams, Magnus, not knowing what else to do, feeling like a wounded animal, snarling at George when he tries to tug on his uniform to urge him on, _fall back_. George lets go then, shouts a warning, and Magnus automatically pulls the trigger on a tall German boy who'd come too close to him, to his friend, his _dead_ friend whose life had ended, taking Magnus' courage with it.

The German boy he kills isn't the first one. It's war. Still, he's the first Magnus actually looks at, the first one who's not lost in a sea of bodies. For a second, he hates that boy and everything he stands for, John's, Ragnor's and many others' murderer, the reason for the war, why he's not in London studying medicine with his best friend, why he's taking lives instead of saving them.

The next second, Magnus realises that he's exactly the same, except that he's Franz's and Otto's murderer, the reason why some poor lass named Olga, somewhere in Koln, won't have her Helmuth by her side once the war's over. He heaves, turns around and throws up, and he tastes blood in his mouth. His or Ragnor's or Franz's, he's not sure.

"Magnus!" George yells.

This time, Magnus stands on shaky legs and follows the order to fall back. He doesn't think it will be useful anyway... He'll die there, in the small towns around Mons, not far from his best friend who closed his eyes before him. _We're alive_ , he'd said. Magnus hates him a little for lying but it's okay, too, because soon they'll be together again and he'll yell at him even in Heaven, or wherever that is soldiers of world wars go once their soul leaves their cold body.

  


  


They retreat and it's chaos. Magnus trips once, twice, and he doesn't know why he stands up again - what's the point? Mons is lost, they failed at stopping the Germans, and they are all going to die. Maybe his will to live is stronger than his exhaustion, both mental and physical?

It's night already and he can't believe they've been fighting all day long, their only breaks consisting in disorganised fleeing. The darkness only reinforces the terror of the men and Magnus catches himself thinking that it was a bad mistake to enlist, to come this far when he could have waited for death in London. Dying in a foreign land, be it as a hero, doesn't appease him. So many lives wasted... Youth and death have met too soon.

"God Almighty," someone suddenly whispers next to him.

The guy is looking up at the sky and if there's one good moment to pray, that's probably it, except that the man isn't praying. He looks stunned and suddenly, they're all glancing up, before their eyes widen.

"Angels!" someone else exclaims, amazed, awed, disbelieving.

Magnus sees them, high in the sky. Their wings are large and white, spreading above the soldiers' heads like shields of feathers, and their faces are both severe and beautiful, like a deadly, godly threat. The angels in the sky carry bows and arrows and for a second, Magnus fears they have come to put an end to their misery, send them to Heaven faster and without much pain, but a scream coming from behind the British lines says enough about the angels' mission.

"Achtung!"

The British's cheer when the first rain of arrows fall onto the German soldiers like the bullets fell upon Magnus and his companions two minutes ago, and they shout orders to step back, _zieht züruck!_ , while Englishmen shout their joy and relief. They don't stay there, though: they don't know how much longer the angels will protect them so they move forward, retreating more calmly, gathering together to reach other defensible positions and recreate a solid line, in a town called Maubeuge, on the frontier.

Magnus turns around before they can go too far though, and his mouth goes slack as he stares at the angels again. Somehow, it feels like a dream, but he does see them like everyone else. Suddenly, one of them turns his head. He's tall, lithe and dark-haired, far from the common representations of blond and plump cherubim, his dark eyes piercing through Magnus' soul like one of his arrows, and suddenly he smiles, lips curling for him only, before he looks away and nocks one more arrow. Magnus is shaking when they arrive in Maubeuge but it's not fear nor exhaustion.

They will never manage to explain what they saw reasonably. Some will speak of shared hallucinations... but the Germans who died under divine arrows would say otherwise.

  


  


Somehow, Magnus' corps make it to the Yser, in Flanders. The King of the Belgians, Albert I, has taken command and Magnus has a sort of mad respect for him. He didn't compromise, fought in Antwerp, and when he risked being surrounded, he retreated behind the river Yser. When one of his men suggests it, he opens the locks of the river and inundates the polders, leaving several kilometres of water between the Germans and them. The Germans will never manage to go through.

  


  


They move again, to France this time, and they go in the tranches. It's cold and bleak. They walk in the mud all day, all night, separated from the enemy by mere meters. Some days, they gain one meter, only to step back the next. It's a still war. Hold your position, move forward, retreat, repeat, don't die, hope for the end of war.

It should only have lasted months. Instead, it's 1916 and Magnus is still there, tasting mud and singing with the other men, but their heart isn't in it. It hasn't for a while. They don't smile, barely talk, only to give orders. They read, days old news from the war in the north, in the south. They write, too, to their families and friends, some to the sweetheart waiting for them at home.

 _Home_ is a foreign concept to Magnus now.

Some find themselves a talent for writing. They write about the abominations of war that they don't talk about. _In Flanders fields the poppies grow, Between the crosses row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below_.

The days go by, long and slow, the nights slower even. Sometimes, going out for battle feels like respite, for they finally move, do something, although that seldom gives the intended results. Afterwards starts the slow and macabre task of bringing the wounded back, the dead when they can. It's listening to the screams of pain and agony, feeling helpless, feeling both cruel and merciful when you put an end to a friend's misery with your own pistol. Monsters and saints are but one, down there.

At the end of those fights, Magnus doesn't know if he's walking in mud or in blood anymore. Everything looks the same, a dull grey that only the poppies, red like blood, that manage to bloom in no-man's-lands, enhance. It's not only his side: they don't think much about that because the other side is the enemy, but in the end they are just a bunch of sad and miserable guys who want to stop this butchery but can't. They still bleed the same.

Magnus sleeps a few hours a night, waking up in time for his watch or for another futile fight, and most often than not, nightmares plague his short hours of rest. They've learned not to wake up because of them anymore: they stay trapped in these dark dreams, because reality isn't much better anyway and they're exhausted. Sleep, as fitful as can be, is essential.

  


  


Days, weeks, months, years. Sometimes it's hard to keep up with the dates. Christmas doesn't feel like Christmas. The thin layers of snow are tinted red anyway, it doesn't put them into the right mood to celebrate. Birthdays pass unnoticed. Young men and old men are the same, sharing fears and one single hope behind ranks of barbwire and sandbags.

Magnus closes his eyes at night, even when he's not asleep, and he tries to count the men he knew who died. He wants to remember them all but there are too many of them for his tired mind. Ragnor remains unforgotten of course, his best friend who died too soon, and there are many others like Magnus who lost their brothers, uncles, fathers, friends, lovers. It happens so fast. It's only a matter of luck and the outcome is always predictable: one will give his life to let another live.

Magnus is tired but there is nothing else to do besides waiting and fighting, then they wait some more and fight again and wait to die for another to live. It's routine and while there should be comfort in habits, this one brings nothing but despair.

  


  


It's one hell of a miracle when the Canadians arrive. For the first time in years, the soldiers sing with their heart, merrier songs they thought they had forgotten. With their men and their food that doesn't taste like the rancid mud of France yet, the Canadians also give hope to the tired soldiers. On a unusually quiet morning of August 1917 that might as well be the middle of bloody January, a young man brings him a bowl of hot porridge. He's tall and lithe and dark-haired, and Magnus is sent back to Mons, where he saw a feathered-figure that looked like him.

"Are you an angel?" he blurts out, his eyes wide, as he takes in the boyish face and dark eyes.

"I'm flattered," the soldier says with a smile, his accent different from his own, "but I'm afraid I'm just flesh and bones. I'm Alexander."

"Magnus," he answers, his voice rough.

It's the first time in years he gets to introduce himself to someone new, someone who doesn't just care about his rank and how many bullets he has left in his pistol. They eat side by side in silence and Magnus catches himself glancing more often than not at Alexander and the way his long fingers are wrapped around the spoon. He can imagine them curl around a bow. Whatever the boy says, he sure looks like an angel and he's probably just as deadly as the ones who opened the sky in Mons.

Later, they fight side by side. For the first time in years, Magnus isn't terrified of what could happen to him but to Alexander: he's scared of his sweet smile, the loveliest sight in a scenery so crude and grey, turning in a frozen frown of pain. He wants to shield him from the bullets like the angels once protected him and he knows, deep down, that survival is only a matter of luck and that he can't do much to help Alexander but damn it, he tries.

He tries so hard that he ends up with shrapnel in his thigh and now, _Alexander_ looks terrified. Terrified to lose him perhaps, or to go back to the fight on his own, maybe both, and Magnus falls asleep to the image of his dark eyes creased with worry. He dreams of angels, of Ragnor, who tells him that he's lucky and smiles as if he knows something that Magnus doesn't. It might be true.

He wakes up like he fell asleep, to the sight of Alexander. It's the middle of the night and his fellow soldier should probably fetch a doctor to make sure that Magnus is alright; instead, he kisses him on the lips softly and welcomes him back. For the first time in years, Magnus feels warm.

  


  


11th of November, 1918. The canons have fallen silent. Magnus can't believe that he's hearing a bird sing again, not after so long. Four years. His body and mind are scarred but he's still there after all that time... He got lucky.

By his side, his angel helps him move forward as they enter Mons, like Magnus did so long ago, except that today he has Alexander to support his weight with an arm wound tight around his waist. The Canadians freed the city and Magnus' thigh, that acts up from time to time even though it healed more than one year ago, has betrayed him after the long march from France to Belgium. It feels like the beginning all over again as they reach the square and the City Hall, still standing after the German occupation.

People wave at them, thank them, call them their saviours, but Magnus can't smile, even though they did accomplish their mission, after all. They saved the day, didn't they, however late they did... Still, how many have fallen doing so? How many lives sacrificed, on both sides of the war?

People rejoice and cry at the same time, relief and grief mixing, and when they're allowed to, they quietly slip away. Alexander is patient, walking at Magnus' slower pace - but really, why hurry, now? The war's over. It sounds impossible, incredible, and yet... Yet they walk, unbothered, and the people they meet as they go up the cobblestoned _Rue des Clercs_ smile at them, their faces full of gratitude.

At the end of the street, a church. People of Mons call it the church of _Sainte Waudru_ and even though Magnus has never been big on religious beliefs, he pushes the heavy wooden door open. Murmured prayers reach their ears as the two soldiers walk in and for the first time in the past few years, for the first time since the beginning of the war, he feels tears flood his eyes.

He never allowed himself to cry, for if he started, who knew when he would stop? Four years are a long time to fight. Today though, his eyes sting. Alexander's hand rests on his shoulder, calm and firm, anchoring him, and Magnus closes his eyes, relishes the tangible presence next to him. When he opens his eyes, he nods toward an alcove, where candles have been lit.

He lights one for Ragnor, whom he never had the occasion to mourn properly, and Alexander holds his hand in the shadows of the church. He spares a thought for those he forgot and hopes that others remember them better, that they won't be but a memory, a bunch of poppies in Flanders fields, far from home.

"What do we do now?" he whispers to Alexander, feeling small and scared, for they have lost so much, survivors of a storm who found each other and held on.

Alexander swiftly leans down and presses his lips against his forehead for a brief moment, before he steps back. Their joined hands are warm and Magnus feels tingles travel up and down his arm.

"We decide," Alexander says with certainty. "We can do whatever we want. We're alive, Magnus."

It hits him then, how much that's true. They have lived to see the end of war, of terror, and they have a whole world to rebuild - themselves, too, and Magnus thinks, hopes, they can rebuild each other as well. His hand tightens around Alexander's.

"We're alive," he repeats.

For the first time in four years, it is true.

  


**Author's Note:**

> John Parr was the first soldier of the Commonwealth to die in WWI. The poem _In Flanders fields_ was composed by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae in 1915 after the Second Battle of Ypres (Belgium). The legend of the Angels of Mons is still discussed, we're not sure it was mere propaganda, an hallucination from the exhausted soldiers or a recuperation from a novel. Still, it's a quite popular story in Mons and has made the object of several shows.
> 
> Thank you for reading this story!


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